


Eternal Flame

by Mallory Klohn (malloryklohn)



Category: X Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-24
Updated: 2008-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:48:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malloryklohn/pseuds/Mallory%20Klohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Skinner shows up at Mulder's for his Regular Saturday Night Thing, he finds a flamboyantly gay imbecile has taken his lover's place.  Is it a government conspiracy?  Has Mulder finally snapped?  Or is it merely badfic?</p><p>Okay, fine.  It's badfic.  Way to spoil the suspense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eternal Flame

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story a very long time ago. In fact, in some ways it's a time capsule for its time: witness the old-skool technology, the no longer fresh pop culture references and so on.
> 
> Mainly I'm telling you it's old so you won't judge me too harshly for its flaws. It's not my fault that I wasn't a prodigy like some of you freaks. Stop judging me! (And for god's sake don't tell me how much I haven't improved in the intervening years. Come on, don't.)
> 
> Just savor the basic fact that it is both intentional badfic and unintentional... notfantasticfic. It's like a black fly in your Chardonnay.

As he made his way down the dark, dank hallway that led to Mulder's apartment, Walter couldn't stop himself from humming, just a little. It was something he would never have done under ordinary circumstances, but if ever there was a place where a man could hum in peace, it was Mulder's apartment building. Odds were, if someone wouldn't report a murder, they weren't going to tell anybody they'd heard the AD humming "I've Just Seen a Face."

He paused outside Mulder's door, savoring the moment. He had Chinese takeout in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other, and the whole weekend stretched out before him like some kind of Bacchanalian Wonderland. His reverie came to an abrupt halt when he realized he couldn't actually knock on the door without destroying something. Then again, it wasn't as if it'd be the first time he'd banged his head against a door because of Mulder.

"Forget it," he muttered. "This is stupid." Walter thumped his shoulder on the door, yelling "Hey!"

For a minute there was no response, and Walter was about to try again when the door swung open to reveal... _Sweet heavenly Jesus!_

Mulder stood in the doorway, wearing black stretch-vinyl pants and a lavender spandex vest over a rainbow tank top. His eyes were red and puffy, his cheeks streaked with the tears that still flowed copiously from his eyes. This all would have been alarming enough if he hadn't had his gun in his mouth. As it was, he was crying so hard that he could barely hold his gun hand steady, crying so hard that he was actually wailing around his weapon.

Walter stared at him for a second, paralyzed with shock. When Mulder didn't move, he dropped his Chinese takeout, grabbed the agent's wrist and yanked; the gun slipped out of his mouth with a soft pop. Impossibly, Mulder's sobs gained strength, until he crumpled to the floor at Walter's feet, actually convulsing with grief.

For a moment, he was distracted by the sight of Mulder's tears glistening on his cheeks like diamonds, but he quickly regained his equilibrium.

"What..." Walter said, waving Mulder's gun helplessly. "What... What... are you _wearing_? You look like Doug Henning, for Christ's sake."

"I'm a fudgepacker," Mulder moaned. "An ass pirate, a--"

In that instant, Walter's decision was made. He pointed his lover's gun at the man on the floor. "Where's Mulder?" Walter demanded.

He'd seen a lot of things in his line of work, things that had made him question his faith in God, in the government, in the American family. At times, it seemed like nothing was real or reliable. But even in the maelstrom that was his life, one thing was certain: this dewy-eyed nymphet who'd been sucking the muzzle of Mulder's Glock in a decidedly lewd fashion was not Walter's Sweet Baby.

"Where's Mulder?"

"What the fuck do you talking about, Assistant Director Skinner?" he sobbed. "I am Fox William Mulder."

Walter was about to threaten the man on the floor before it occurred to him that he didn't have much of a bargaining position against a man who'd answered the door with Mulder's gun in his mouth. _If you don't tell me where he is, I'm gonna let you live! You hear me? Live!_

"Get inside before somebody sees you," he commanded.

"I do not care if someone can see me," Mulder wept miserably.

"Well, I do," Walter said, dragging the man into Mulder's apartment. "And so will Agent Mulder, believe me."   
"I am--"   
"Whatever." Walter slammed the door shut behind them and locked it. "You want to tell me what in hell is going on?"

"I am a big flaming homosexual man," he moaned.

Walter rolled his eyes. "Yeah, _and_?" The man on the floor stopped crying for maybe three seconds, clearly at a loss, before he started yowling again. "Great." The AD left him on the floor and began a quick search of Mulder's apartment. No forced entry, no signs of struggle... of course, with Mulder that doesn't necessarily mean anything...

The AD crouched on the floor next to Mulder's sobbing double and took the man's face in his hands. If he'd been doing anything but crying, the resemblance might have been eerie. As it was, grief transformed the man's face into a mockery of Mulder's own. _If Mulder ever starts crying, I'm going to kill myself._

"Tell me where he is," he said reasonably. "The more time I have to waste beating it out of you, the more time someone else has to beat him. You don't want me to come looking for you if something happens to him, do you?"

"I told you," he wept, "I am Fox--"

"Prove it."

"Wh--What?"

"I'll give you five minutes to convince me that you're Fox Mulder. If you can't do it..." He cracked his knuckles meaningfully.

"You would not hit me," he said. "You are the Assistant Director."

"That was strike one," he said, dropping the man's head and standing up. "What's your favorite ice cream?"

"Rocky Road."

Walter blinked. That _was_ Mulder's favorite. "What do you like to do with it?"   
The man's reaction was immediate: he shut down completely, his tears run dry at last, his face a mask of suspicion. "I will not tell you."

This was strange; if he'd pretended indignation, that might have been something, but he seemed to know what he did with it, even if it wasn't what Walter knew Mulder did. He circled the man on the floor, waiting with consummate dread for the next outburst. Whoever had sent this man had planned it down to the finest detail. Hysterical or no, Freddie Mercury outfit or no, his abandoned sprawl was all too familiar to the AD, his long, supple limbs too familiar, his--

Well, that was new. This Mulder had a much larger bulge in his shiny pants; almost comically large, in fact. The thought that it might be Walter's own socks providing this Mulder with his impressive fake endowment made the AD's skin crawl.

"Get up," he growled.

"Why?"

"Never mind why." He waved Mulder's Glock menacingly. "Get. Up."

The man slowly rose to his feet, teetering slightly on the three-inch heels of his snakeskin boots. Walter took a step toward him, and he staggered back. When he struck the wall, his face crumpled and he burst into tears again.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Walter muttered. "I don't have time for this. I know you're not Mulder, all right? You couldn't fool his mother with this act. Tell me where he is, and then you can cry yourself unconscious for all I care."

"Assistant Director Skinner, I do not know what you speak about! I am--"

Walter raised a fist, ready to work out some of his frustrations. Before he could let fly, Mulder's front door was knocked off its hinges, and Alex Krycek burst into the apartment.   
"You move an inch and the inmates are gonna call you Stumpy Joe for the next 60 years," Walter snarled, training Mulder's gun on him.

"Fuck, Mulder, what the fuck is going on?"

"I do not know," Mulder's double wept. "Assistant Director Skinner comes into here and found me with my gun--"

"In his mouth," Walter said meaningfully. "And look at his pants."

"Fuck, Mulder," Krycek said, as if Walter hadn't spoken, "you were going to fucking kill yourself?"

"I love you," Mulder moaned. "I can not live with how much I fucking love you, Ratboy."   
Walter gaped. "Excuse me?"

"Fuck, Mulder, you have to live, you have to fucking go on, for fuck's sake. I fucking love the shit out of you! How the fuck do you fucking think I could live without you?"   
"Excuse me?" Walter said again.

"You stay the fuck out of this, Skinner," Krycek snarled. "You fucking well wouldn't understand our fucking love."

Walter turned back to the man crying against the wall. "Where's Krycek?"

"He is Alexander Dostoevsky Petrovich Rasputin Krycek," Mulder's double sobbed. "The man I--"

"Save it," Walter snapped.

"Don't you fucking talk to him that way, you fuck!"

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" Walter said mildly.

"Right before I fucking shot the bitch," Krycek's double grinned.

"Charming," Walter said. "So, you're Alex Krycek?"

"Fuck yeah."

"And this," he said, poking Mulder's double in the stomach with his gun, "is Fox Mulder?"

"What the fuck does it look like?"

"Oh, you don't want to know," Walter assured him. Mulder's double started sobbing afresh. "What is it now?"

"I have to go to the bathroom," he wept.

Walter closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I'll come with you."

"The fuck you will, Krycek's double cried, taking a step forward. "He's mine, for fuck's sake!"

"You're welcome to him," said Walter. "I just don't want him jumping out the window."

"I might break my neck or die if I did that, Assistant Director Skinner," Mulder's double moaned. "I am not stupid, you know."

Walter was silent.

"I am a brilliant profiler and psychologist."

"You are a hysterical, badly dressed pain in the ass," Walter said. "And if it's all the same to you, I'll come with you."

"I should kick your fucking ass right now," Krycek's double said, taking another step.   
Walter looked at him. He had the gun, he was twice the size of the other man, and he wasn't the one who'd just professed his love to Sigfried and Roy's Amazing Man-Child. The odds of the AD getting his ass kicked at this point were only slightly greater than those that someone would show up in the next few minutes to explain what was going on.

"Come here," he said, yanking his handcuffs out of a pocket.

"Fuck you, man, no fucking way am I wearing those."

"That's not how this works," Walter said. "You're under arrest."

"What the fuck for?"

In any other situation, the question might have seemed more ridiculous than it did. "Willful destruction of private property," he said, waving the Glock at the remains of Mulder's front door.

"This is fucking bullshit and you know it, Skinner," he griped, presenting Walter with his wrists.

"No!" Mulder's double screamed when Walter opened the cuffs. "You can not take him from me! I feel homosexual love for him!"

Walter turned just in time to catch the man as he launched himself at the AD. The three of them hit the floor, but none of them hit it harder than Krycek's double, whose head struck it with a discouraging thump. _Well, if nothing else, this should expedite the arrest._

"You killed him!" Mulder's double whimpered, collapsing into tears.

_I wish_. "He's unconscious, you jackass," Walter growled, disentangling himself from the heap.

"There is no gods," the crying man gasped, straddling Krycek's double. "Goddess, how could you remove him from me before we had a chance to prove our love?"

Walter left him to his lament and headed off to the bathroom in search of antacids. The face he saw in Mulder's mirror was a pale reflection of its former self. The scene in the living room came straight from his worst five-alarm chili nightmares, and the only thing saving him from being the next man to deep-throat Mulder's gun was the very fact that the two men acting out this Barbara Cartland fever dream were so far removed from the Mulder and Krycek he knew that it was impossible for him to take it to heart. As it was, Walter was going to have a hard time looking Mulder in the eye for weeks--assuming he found his lover in time.

Sighing heavily, he opened his cell phone and dialed Scully's apartment.

"Scully."

"Agent Scully, this is AD Skinner. I don't suppose you've heard from Mulder recently."   
"I'm not sure," she said, sounding relieved. "Someone who sounded like Mulder called me a little while ago, but then..."

"Then?"

"He didn't make any sense, sir. He could barely form a sentence. And he claimed to be in love with Alex Krycek." Scully paused significantly. "Sir, I couldn't reach Mulder after that, but it's not uncommon for him to turn off his phone when he has something planned. I would have tried his apartment, but I assumed it was a prank--"

"What did he have planned?" Walter demanded. It was just like Mulder to run off and do some bizarre thing without telling him. "Agent Scully?" he prompted.

"Dinner," she said quietly. "With you."

Walter smirked. He knew she probably wasn't burning with embarrassment about it, but neither had it been easy to say. "You're telling me he's only been gone a few hours?"   
"Sir, if you'll just tell me what's going on, I might be able to--"

"That won't be necessary, Scully," he said, peeking into the living room. Mulder's double lay on top of Krycek's, still weeping. _I'm never going to eat again._ "I'll keep you apprised of the situation as it develops."

"What's that sound in the background?" she asked.

The AD grimaced. "Police car. Goodbye."

When Walter returned, Mulder's double scrambled to his knees, crying "I will murder you for this."

Without hesitation, Walter aimed the Glock at Krycek's double. "Where's Mulder?"

"You are a lunatic person! I am Fox William--"

Walter fired a shot into the floor, less than an inch from the unconscious man's head. Mulder's double shrieked and started crying again. "Tell me where he is," he said patiently. "I don't have a problem with shooting the real Alex Krycek in cold blood, so believe me when I tell you I'm even less squeamish about killing him."

Mulder's double flung himself on top of the unconscious man. "Do you kill him, you kill me must."

Walter blinked. A part of him expected the man wearing Mulder's face to peel it off, only to reveal the reptilian flesh beneath. Eventually he tired of waiting for the hysterical impostor to move; he knelt beside the pair of them and pressed the muzzle of Mulder's gun to Krycek's double's temple.

"You were saying?" Mulder's double burst into tears; Walter backhanded him. "Let's try a new one," he said softly, looming over the sobbing man. "What's your name?"

"Jerry," he sniveled.

Walter ran a hand over his face. He'd been 99% sure he was right, that he hadn't lost his mind--and nor had Mulder, for that matter--but until this moment, there'd been the faintest sense of doubt. "Thank-you," he said fervently. "And your foul-mouthed friend?"

"Donald."

He fought the urge to ask Jerry just how many pairs of socks he'd stuffed down his pants. The man was so _cooperative_ now. "Who sent you?" When Jerry hesitated, Walter trained the Glock on Donald again. "Who?"

"Timmy Sinister," he said heavily.

_The man who ruined my weekend is named TIMMY?_ "He has Mulder?"

Jerry nodded. "And Krycek."

"I don't give a flying fuck about Krycek," he said. "But if anything's happened to Mulder--"

"He won't not hurt them," Jerry assured him. "He just playing with them."

"If anything's happened to Mulder, you'll take Donald home in a sandwich bag."

Jerry let out a sob.

"Don't even start," Walter snarled. "Where can I find Timmy Sinister?" _Walter, did you hear what you just said?_

"He lives in Boston."

"Then we'd better get going," said Walter, hunting down his bottle of rum. "Bring your friend," he said, waving vaguely with it.

"He need a doctor!" Jerry protested.

"He's going to need a mortician if you don't get him moving right now."

"I will take him," Jerry sighed, tears running down his cheeks. "I forbid you touching him."

"I respect that," Walter said, rolling his eyes. "Let's go."

*** *** ***

Jerry spent the first hour of the drive kneeling on the front passenger seat to keep watch over Donald while he lay unconscious in the back of Walter's car. It was a long, long hour, tense and grim, its silence broken only by the occasional hitching sob from the man who still looked far too much like Mulder for Walter's taste. Every time he bent to stroke Donald's hair, he brought his ass back into the forefront of Walter's thoughts.

It wasn't the first injustice of the AD's life, and not even the greatest, come to that, but it was certainly the most offensive. As far as he was concerned, only Mulder had a right to own an ass like that. It just made sense that someone as irritating as Mulder was would possess the ass that had changed Walter's life from the ground up. To see it bandied about by this simpering imbecile was almost more than the AD could take.

God only knew what Timmy Sinister had already done to Mulder in the time it had taken Walter to bully Jerry into telling him what he needed to know. Anyone who would outfit his operatives as Timmy had had a truly perverse opinion of what constituted "play", after all.

The only comfort Walter could take from the whole situation was in the knowledge that Mulder's weekend had also been destroyed over this. The agent wasn't well-known for being reasonable about things like that.

Walter glanced at Jerry's ass in the rearview mirror. It was after ten o'clock; had everything gone according to plan, he and Mulder would be in bed, possibly putting that Rocky Road to good use. Walter's clothing would go sailing past the television and into remote areas of his lover's bedroom, and then... Mulder had a way of saying things in certain situations that made it seem as though he was speaking in one of the romance languages instead of his own. It could be very uplifting to the spirit.

"Isn't he beautiful?" Jerry said quietly.

Walter flicked an irritated glance at his rearview mirror. "He's wearing mascara."

Jerry blinked, then twisted in his seat to take another look. "Damn you are right oh well."   
Walter stared straight ahead with steely determination. In the dim light of his console, the puffy skin and blotchiness that were the result of Jerry's incessant crying were harder to detect. With one of Mulder's leather jackets concealing that horrible purple vest, Jerry looked more like the agent than he had all night, dopey remarks about Krycek's double notwithstanding. _This is all Mulder's fault._

"Assistant Director Skinner?"

"What?"

Jerry sighed dreamily. "Did you see the way his perfect sea green orbs glimmered with passion and love for me when he tried to hit you?"

"Pinkeye," Walter said with satisfaction.

Jerry was silent for a moment, and then, "Assistant Director Skinner?"

"What?"

"Have you ever felt what it like to have yourself impaled on nine inches of hot throbbing--"   
Walter turned up the radio.

"Be careful," Jerry warned. "If he waken up, he might get a ache in the head."

"Good."

The AD was grateful for the silence that greeted this remark, but alas, it didn't last. Jerry turned to face Walter again, an empty-headed smile on his face. "This is the song which means our love," he said softly.

Walter listened: it was the Carpenters' "We've Only Just Begun."

"Oh, for the love of Christ," he growled. He'd whiled away many an hour in the past complaining about Mulder's weird conversational strategies, but now, he looked back on those times as his salad days. Better to listen to Mulder's answering machine message than another minute of Jerry's pornographic sentence fragments.

"His balls are like fuzzy plums," Jerry confided.

"That'd be kiwis," Walter said before he could stop himself. He was in serious trouble if he was going to start indulging Jerry's whims, too.

"I guess..." he knelt on his seat again. "When he does buggery to me, I love to lie on the carpet while he makes to me a horny little slut."

Walter slammed on the brakes; Jerry fell against the dashboard, and Donald rolled into the leg space. "Look," said the AD, grabbing Jerry by the collar. "I don't want to hear another word. Not about his eyes, not about his ass, and not about what he does to _your_ ass. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," Jerry rasped, his eyes welling up with tears. He and Walter lifted Donald back onto the back seat, and Walter started driving again.

"Assistant Director Skinner?"

"What did I just say?"

"It not Donald," he said quickly. "I want to ask to you a question."

"What?"

"Do you be jealous of my and Donald's love?"

"No. And if you don't shut up, right now, you'll ride the rest of the way in the trunk."   
The truth, as always, was a little more complicated. In an extremely abstract way, Walter had no objection to Jerry's "love" for Donald (aside from his usual qualms about taking advantage of ignorant people.) What troubled him was the idea of people who looked like Mulder professing love for people who looked like Krycek.

No comparison could be made; it simply did not compute. This was life in an alternate dimension, and Walter had been fairly satisfied with his own, even if he didn't win more than one argument out of every ten.

Walter didn't want to know that Krycek's double had balls like fuzzy plums; in fact, he didn't want to know if his _own_ balls were like fuzzy plums. Any description of his anatomy that resulted in his avoiding the produce section on principle was strictly off limits.

It was a moot point, anyway. Mulder would sooner die than say such a thing.

Timmy Sinister was probably playing Parcheesi with Mulder. Mulder had probably planned all this himself, like a staged murder mystery, only with half-witted clones and working handguns.

Walter would spend the better part of his weekend at least convincing himself that he couldn't kill the men in his car without some kind of repercussions, and when he got back to work--_if_ he got back to work--Mulder would saunter into his office with a sated smile on his face and an all-over tan that Walter would probably never get to enjoy in its entirety, what with the criminal charges and everything...

"Fuck," came a groan from the back seat. Walter sighed. _I should have gagged the son of a bitch when I had the chance._

"Donald!" Jerry cried, twisting in his seat once again. "Do you feel when okay?"

"Fuck, Mulder, why the fuck are you calling me Donald?"

"He told me," Walter said smugly. "He told me _everything_."

"Oh, for fuck's sake! Do you have any fucking idea how the fuck much trouble we're in now?"   
Jerry started to cry.

"Fuck!"

"I still have the gun," Walter explained kindly, "you're handcuffed in the back of my car, and Jerry's..." he trailed off; Jerry's wheezing sobs were explanation enough. "And we're all going to Boston to retrieve my Agent. I'd say you're in a lot of trouble, even if I don't lose patience with you and kill you both, which isn't to say that won't happen."

Donald struggled into a sitting position. "Maybe he's not in fucking Boston. Did you ever fucking think of that, you fucking asshole? Maybe fucking Jerry lied."

"Jerry's an idiot," Walter said dismissively.

"No," Jerry sniffed. "I am a brilliant--"

"No, he's right, you're a fucking idiot," Donald said, leaning forward to nuzzle Jerry's hair. "That's why I fucking love you so fucking much."

"Really?" Jerry asked with a watery smile.

"Fuck, yeah. What the fuck do you think?"

"I think I wish we were not the hostages of Assistant Director Skinner, because then I would get to become naked near you and rub myself with blueberry jam and--"

"One more word," Walter snarled, "and you are going in the trunk. Alone," he amended at Jerry's hopeful look.

"Fuck you, Skinner," Donald said, "you don't know a fucking thing about the fucking human heart, or goddamned true fucking love."

"Maybe not as you understand it," he conceded. "But I do know how to shoot a man to guarantee it'll take him a long, painful time to die."

Both men fell silent.

"It's a long way to Boston, gentlemen," Walter said calmly. "If either one of you says anything I haven't specifically asked you to tell me, I'm going to tie the other one to my bumper and drag him the rest of the way."

"You're a bad man," Jerry sobbed.

"Fuck, Jerry, do you fucking want him to kill me?"

Walter sighed. _It might be easier if I just get out of the car and shoot myself._

*** *** ***

Walter hadn't given a lot of thought to what Timmy Sinister's house would look like, but what few thoughts he had had on the subject had left him totally unprepared for the weird splendor of Sinister Gardens Apartments.

The building looked like an old Colonial house: the kind of blindingly white, vine-covered monstrosity that would have been far more at home in some hot, Southern place where everyone was drunk all the time and wife-swapping was as de rigueur as mowing the lawn. By the time Walter had absorbed the topiary animals, the porch swing and the faux statuary surrounding the walkway, he was more than prepared to turn around and leave.

No good could come of this excursion; it was obvious now. He could stand on the steps and shout Mulder's name until the _COPS_ people showed up, but even if he recovered his lover now, he knew he'd never close his eyes again without seeing SINISTER GARDENS APARTMENTS-FREE CABLE-NO PETS flashing in lurid neon.

"He's _here_?" Walter asked incredulously.

"Yeah, he's fucking here," Donald snarled. "What the fuck do you think, we fucking manipulated you into driving us to fucking Boston? You think I fucking _like_ having my hands tied behind my back, for fuck's sake?"

"But darling," Jerry sputtered.

"Shut the fuck up," said Donald. Jerry started to cry.

Walter glared at them both. This had been far too easy. Since when had finding Mulder ever been as uncomplicated as holding some clones at gunpoint? Where was all the gunplay? Where were the government-mandated assassins? The aliens? The diabolical plot that must be unraveled at any cost?

"What am I looking at, here?" he demanded. "Who's in this building?"

"Oh, fuck, who's not? There's all those fucking retirees who came for the fucking _Cheers_ bar, the fucking welfare cheats, the fucking newlyweds, the fucking shoe salesmen, and every fucking one of them has a goddamned plugged toilet, for Christ's sake--"   
The AD gaped. "You were the handyman?"

"No, you fucking reject, I fix fucking toilets because Jesus told me to. How the fuck did you make Assistant Director, anyway? Do you give really fucking good blowjobs or something?"

"He has jealousy for our love," Jerry sniffled.

"How many people are likely to try to kill me?" Walter grated.

"I call dibs," Donald said. "Fuck."

Walter crossed the porch and tried the door; it was locked. "Does either of you have a key?"

Donald snickered. "Look at those fucking pants, man," he said, pointing at Jerry, who sat on the swing, sobbing quietly. "Where the fuck is he going to put a key?"

"Kick it down," Walter ordered.

"Fuck you, do you have any fucking idea how fucking long it took me to--"

Sighing heavily, Walter aimed Mulder's Glock at Jerry. "Kick it down." Part of him rebelled at the very idea of threatening a man who looked so much like his lover, but the other part was increasingly aware of how close he was to recovering the real thing.

Cursing and complaining all the way, Donald caved in the front door, sending slivers of wood and shards of pink glass flying everywhere.

"Pretty," Jerry wept.

Walter unlocked Donald's handcuffs. "You move and I'll plug him right now," he said.   
Jerry gave him a sly look. "What you to mean?"

Without bothering to respond, the AD, yanked Jerry to his feet, wrapped his arms around one column, and cuffed him to it. After a beat, Jerry started to struggle.

"No! I do the love Donald with!"

"Relax. I just don't need you wailing me into an early grave," Walter sighed, gagging Jerry with his tie. It wasn't a perfect solution, but Mulder would be impressed. If someone did come upon Jerry while the AD was inside, chances were good that it would take them fifteen to twenty minutes to figure out what he was saying.

Donald stood by the ruined door, watching Jerry with admiration. "Fuck, baby, you know what this reminds me of?" Jerry grunted. "San Fran-fucking-cisco," Donald purred. Jerry squinted. "Fuck, _you_ remember. The fifth time." Jerry nodded. "Fuck, yeah," said Donald. "Right down to the fucking gunplay."

"Let talking, more moving," Walter said. Donald led him to the elevators.

"I fucking love the shit out of that guy," Donald said while they waited. "Not that it's any of your fucking business."

"Believe me when I tell you, I don't want to make it my business."

"I don't know what the fuck we're going to do when this is all over, for fuck's sake. Timmy's gonna be pissed right the fuck off."

The elevator arrived, and Walter shoved Donald inside. "We'll all go back to my place for beer and barbecue, how would you like that?"

"Fuck you, man." Donald punched the B button sullenly before slouching against the back wall. "You ever done it in an elevator?"

Walter blinked. So far tonight, Donald had said the F word so many times that Walter had lost count at 65. _That_ guy had just asked him if he'd ever "done it". He smiled evilly. "Are you making a suggestion?"

"I don't fucking think so, pervert," Donald said indignantly. "I fucking love Jerry, you fucking cocksucking asshole."

"It's easy to see why," the AD conceded. "What was it that first attracted you to him: his incomprehensible speech, or his inability to perform simple mathematical equations?"

"Fuck you."

"No, fuck _you_," Walter said politely. His words were punctuated by a discreet ding when the elevator stopped.

Donald shuffled out of the car and started down a long, dark hallway. Walter expected him to call out a warning of some kind, but apparently, he valued his future bizarre sex acts with Mulder's double more highly than his continued employment at Sinister Gardens: he merely led the AD to a big blue door that bore a small white personalized license plate reading TIMMY'S ROOM.

Walter glared at Donald. "Now what?"

Krycek's double rolled his eyes. "The fucking Secret Knock."

He sighed heavily. "There's a Secret Knock?"

"Fuck, yeah. What day is it?"

"May 28th."

Donald produced a notebook from the depths of his jacket and began flipping through it irritably. "Fucking twenty-third, fucking twenty-fourth... Shit, this is so fucking stupid--" Squinting carefully at his notebook, Donald beat out a rhythm on Timmy's door. To Walter's unschooled ears, it sounded like "Surrey With a Fringe on Top."

After a moment, the door swung open to reveal a scrawny, pasty-faced boy of about fifteen. His eyes widened in horror when he realized what he was seeing, but before either he or Walter could say anything, Donald had the boy by the throat, lifting him up to eye level.

"I have fucking _had it_ with you! Give this fucking asshole his boytoy and give me my fucking severance pay, or I'm gonna fucking show you what it's like to use fucking antifreeze as a personal lubricant, you sick fuck!" The boy started to cry. "Fuck!"

Walter brushed past the pair of them and scanned the room. There was a racecar bed in one area, a computer station in another, and a set of model trains in the third.

It wasn't until he was turning back to Donald and Timmy that he spotted the other door. "So help me god," he growled, striding toward it, "if you've even touched his _hair_..."

The door was locked.

"Donald, bring him over here, I just want to--"

"Walter?"

The AD froze. It sounded like Mulder, if a Mulder somewhat lacking in confidence. Then again, everyone sounded like Mulder lately. "...yes?"

"What's my favorite ice cream?"

"Rocky Road," he said promptly.

"What do I like to do with it?"

Walter hid a goofy smile. "Do you really want me to say it in front of all these criminals?"

Without warning, the door swung open. Mulder grabbed Walter's arm and yanked him inside, slamming the door behind him and locking it with almost inhuman speed.

For long seconds, the pair of them just stared at one another. Here was Mulder, the _right_ Mulder, _his_ Mulder, calm and dry-eyed and wearing jeans and a t-shirt and his leather jacket and just generally looking like a sane human being.

"What are you smiling at?" Mulder murmured.

"I was just thinking that you look like a sane human being," said Walter, "and I can't get over how fucked-up that is."

They were locked in Timmy Sinister's bathroom, an extremely blue affair with a quaint rubber-ducky motif. The only thing that spared it from being pure _Sesame Street_ was the large silver tray on the counter: it bore a wide variety of dildos, whips, clamps, lubricants, and other sundry items of an unwholesome nature.

"Jesus Christ, he's all of fifteen," Walter muttered.

Mulder gave him a sickly smile. "They're not for him," he said. "They're part of an experiment."

"An experiment in what? New and exciting uses for your tile cleanser?"

"Oh god, you don't know."

"What?" he demanded.

With a look of apology, Mulder opened the shower curtain. A man who was Walter's double right down to the last freckle dangled by his wrists from the shower head. Outfitted in nothing but a black leather half-mask and matching leather shorts, he snarled at the pair of them through the pink towel Mulder had used to gag him.

"Meet Larry," Mulder said wryly. "He was very disappointed when he found out the real reason why I took off my belt."

"This is a disaster," Walter moaned, collapsing against the door.

"Not if we tell his mother," said Mulder. "With any luck, he'll be at Bible camp by this time Monday."

"I don't--" Larry growled menacingly. The AD cleared his throat and spoke louder. "I don't--" Larry growled again. Glaring at Mulder, Walter yanked the shower curtain back into place. "I can't talk with him doing that," he complained. "He looks like a professional wrestler."

Mulder smirked. "Kinda puts that whole _WWF Raw_ thing in a new light, doesn't it?"   
Walter ran both hands over his head. "God damn it. I wanted--I just wanted--I mean, I want--I brought Chinese," he said helplessly.

Mulder backed him into the door, pressing their hips together. "Kiss me."

"Mulder, you and me and my scary clone are locked in the bathroom of a psychopath named Timmy Sinister, who by the way is getting pistol-whipped by Alex Krycek's clone right now, while your clone is crying himself to death out on the front porch."

The Agent smiled faintly. "Is he cuter than me?"

"That's not the point," he insisted, but even so, he couldn't stop his arms from winding around Mulder's waist.

"Oh, I think it is," he breathed, licking Walter's neck. "He hit on you, didn't he?"   
"Briefly," Walter squeaked.

"He was cloned for Krycek, and he still hit on you. What does that tell you?"

"That even your clone has no shame?"

"No, no," he murmured, nuzzling Walter's throat, "it means that wanting you is in my DNA."   
"That's the cheesiest thing you've ever said to me," Walter said, stretching to give Mulder better access, "and that's really saying something." Mulder mumbled something indistinctly, his hands fumbling with Walter's belt. "Wait," the AD said weakly.

Mulder slipped a hand inside Walter's pants. "No. I--" He was interrupted by a flurry of thumps on the bathroom door.

"Open the door!" It was Timmy Sinister.

"Get your own," Mulder whispered.

Walter smirked. "He already did."

"Open up, or I swear, I'll break it down!" They waited (or, rather, Mulder waited--Walter was somewhat distracted by the rhythmic squeezing of his lover's hand) but Timmy failed to make good on his threat. "Come on, you guys," Timmy said petulantly. "It's my bedtime. If my mom finds out, I--"

Mulder grinned. "We're telling on you."

"You can't!"

"Timmy Sinister," Mulder said gravely, "you're gonna get a lickin'."

Walter closed his eyes briefly. "That's an unfortunate double entendre if ever I've heard one."

Mulder grinned madly. "Listen to me, Walter: we're getting out of here. We're going home. We're having dinner. We're going to bed. And then maybe we'll watch Tom Green."

"We're not watching Tom Green," the AD said firmly. "We're already living his childhood, here."

"Don't worry," said the agent, patting his arm. "I'll wait until you're asleep."

"You taped it?"

"Hell yes, I taped it. It's been in reruns forever."

Walter scowled at him. "Did you set the VCR before or after your kidnappers arrived?"

"Do we have to talk about this right now?"

As if on cue, Timmy began banging on the door again. "You _guys_!"

The AD opened the door and dragged Timmy inside. "What are you going to do with the clones?"

"I--"

"Yeah," Mulder said, poking him, "you didn't think about that, did you, you twisted little twerp?"

"Donald's gone," Timmy blurted.

Walter's jaw dropped. "You let him go? Where?"

"I-- I don't know," he stammered. "He ran off with Alex Krycek."

Mulder's jaw dropped. "This is--"

"Never mind that," the AD said impatiently. "Where's Jerry?"

"He's in the other room. Watching cartoons."

"DNA," Mulder said smugly. "You can't beat it."

"I'll remind you that you said that," Walter growled, releasing Timmy Sinister. "Bring him to me."

Less than a minute later, Timmy returned with Jerry in tow. "I was watching _Thundercats_," Jerry whined. His protests died on his lips when he caught sight of Mulder.

"This is Jerry," Walter said softly, savoring Mulder's expression. "He's a big flaming homosexual man."

"_I'll_ say," said Mulder, circling him. "Take off my jacket, will you?"

Jerry handed it to him, his eyes welling up with tears. Mulder stared at him, clearly fascinated, only to jerk back suddenly when the first sob escaped him.

He looked alarmed. "You're crying?"

"He's crying," Walter and Timmy said together.

"What-- what do we do?"

Walter, his patience long gone, whipped open the shower curtain. As soon as Larry caught sight of Jerry, he struggled against his bonds with renewed strength, growling and snarling all the while. Jerry's sobs abated somewhat, only to mutate into a wide, dim-witted smile.

"...Daddy?"

"Oh my god," Mulder said, awed.

The AD grabbed his arm and steered him toward the door. "Problem solved. We're leaving."

"Wait!" Timmy cried, leaping in front of them. "What am I going to tell my mom?"

"She should have gone to more of your soccer games," Mulder said, grabbing a box of Twinkies from Timmy's desk.

*** *** ***

"I don't want to seem argumentative," Walter said, much later, "but something's been weighing on my thoughts since we left Boston."

"Wha..." With great difficulty, Mulder raised his head and tried to glare at his lover. He lay on his back, naked, his legs splayed wide, and Walter had been giving him a very inspired blow job, but then... "Walter, don't be a dick. Not now, at least. Please."

"The bathroom door was locked on your side," the AD continued stubbornly. "You could have broken that kid in half if you wanted."

"Walter..." Mulder raised his hips optimistically, bumping Walter in the cheek with his cock. "You cared enough to take my clone hostage and drive to Boston, but not enough to finish me off before we have this conversation?"

"Don't put this on me," Walter griped, sitting up.

"Goddamn it, why do you always do this to me?"

"Why do you always do things that provoke me into doing it?"

"You really want to know?"

"Yes!"

"You do, you want to know."

"I want to know."

Mulder mumbled incoherently.

"Don't pull that mumbling thing on me, Mulder. That got old a long time ago."

"Larry told me you were on your way. All right? Are you satisfied?"

Walter blinked. "Larry?"

"Larry."

"My... clone?"

"You share a lot more than DNA, Walter."

"I don't share his DNA," he said hotly. He suffered enough comparisons to drooling troglodytes as it was without being told he had genes in common with The Gimp.

Mulder pulled Walter close, kissing him softly. "You're cuter than him, though."

"Jerry was easier to get along with," Walter said spitefully.

"You're only saying that because you could push him around," he said, lying back again. He arched his back for Walter, smiling invitingly. "Come on," he urged, tugging on the AD's wrist. "You already ruined my Friday Groan Moment--"

Walter pulled back again, indignant. "Friday Groan Moment?"

Mulder gripped the AD's waist with his knees. "You know," he said, "when you show up at my place, and you lose the attitude, and you just sort of collapse on my sofa and go Ohh..."

He fought a smile. "I don't do it like that."

"How do you know?"

"Because," he said, spreading himself out atop his lover, "if I did it like that, you'd have my pants off before Nash Bridges started."

Mulder was silent for long moments while they kissed; hot, sweet kisses that blew giant holes in the AD's argument. The agent's hands slid down to cup Walter's ass, and his hips had begun a pleasing rocking against the AD's own, and his tongue performed contortions in its exploration of Walter's mouth...

Yet, while Walter was profoundly relieved that he wasn't in a position to see his complaints through to their logical end, he found that he missed Mulder's weird patter now that he'd spent so much time living with the alternatives.

He tore his mouth away with a gasp. "Could you... oh..."

"God, _what_?"

"Tell me something..?"

"No," he moaned, "I can't, I'm drawing the line, you have to stop picking fights with me when everybody's naked--"

"I didn't mean that," he said urgently. "Tell me something, tell me anything, I don't care."

Mulder froze. "You... just want to hear me talk?"

"God, yes."

"Kinky."

"Fuck you, Mulder." When he would have pulled away, Mulder wrapped his legs around the AD's waist.

"Wait, no, I'll tell you something," he promised. He kissed Walter hard and unraveled his legs.

"Go ahead," Walter said skeptically, fumbling for their lubricant.

"Clones age faster than natural people," Mulder gasped when the AD began stretching him.

"They do?" Walter said faintly, watching Mulder fucking himself on the AD's hand.

"They do, see, they have shortened telomeres--they're a DNA marker--oh, Christ, you really want me to-- oh..."

"Go on."

"Shit! I--telomeres... people are born with fresh ones, and clones are created from telomeres that are already ticking down from the host's life--Walter..."

He kissed Mulder's thigh wetly. "So," he rumbled, "Larry was already forty-five when he was born?"

"Replicated," Mulder moaned.

"Whatever," he said, thrusting hard.

"Ah, god! You're--oh!"

"What?" he grinned.

Mulder met his next thrust, and they both fell silent for long, wonderful seconds. "You're better at it than he is," Mulder said.

"I hope for your sake that you're talking about being forty-five," he growled.

"You think... I couldn't tell the difference... oh, god... between you and him?"

"I think you wouldn't care," Walter said, nipping the agent's throat.

"I care," Mulder groaned. "Oh, god, I care, I care more than anything, right this minute, I care... oh..."

It was too late to settle into a rhythm: Mulder was already more than halfway there, mumbling almost incoherently about Walter's skin, and his chest hair, and his voice, and his mouth, and how bald men really are more virile.

Walter's own universe consisted of nothing more complicated than the legs gripping his waist, the ass gripping his cock, and the mouth sucking on his neck (in between obscene hosannas about Walter's staying power.)

He started pumping Mulder's cock and thrust harder, faster, deeper, thinking yes and yes and yes, and then Mulder tore his mouth away from the AD's neck and hissed "Fuck me, Daddy," and Walter was laughing and coming and kissing his lover, all at the same time.

"You're a sick man," he panted, collapsing on top of Mulder.

"You're the one who came when I said it, pervert," Mulder grinned.

He licked Mulder's ear. "You stayed at Sinister Gardens and waited for me when you could have gone out for donuts and called me from a pay phone."

"You drove my clone to Boston instead of asking him for the address," Mulder countered, rolling the AD onto his back.

"You let Larry stay in the bathroom."

"You let Jerry wear my jacket."

"You stole Twinkies," Walter blurted after a beat.

"...what?"

"I don't know," he said irritably. "I got nothin'."


End file.
